


Code Word: Toulon

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables (Dallas 2014)
Genre: Castration, Dystopia, Erotic Electrostimulation, Forced Orgasm, Fucking Machines, M/M, Madeleine Era, Medical Procedures, Mind Control, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Prostate Milking, Punishment, Sex Robots, Toulon Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 03:51:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10711617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: In Toulon, certain experiments take place to make the prisoners more docile.





	Code Word: Toulon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ellamason](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellamason/gifts).



The mayor was a secret to many. Javert couldn’t figure him out. It annoyed him; seeing Madeleine was like a constant itch, because Javert _knew_ people. That was what his job was. He knew the convict from the citizen, the robot from the human servant. He saw a man, and he could make an assessment of him within minutes. Javert was rarely wrong.

But the mayor was a mystery, and not just to Javert.

Today, Javert observed a gathering of people near the door of the local robot repairs shop, and when he stepped closer, he saw several of the town’s worst gossips eagerly listening to Master Jacques. Curious despite himself, he moved closer. There was little happening in Montreuil Javert didn’t know; still, even nowadays, sometimes it paid to listen himself, rather than trust fully in the reports coming in from drones and automated programs.

“The mayor himself!” Jacques said. “Truly. Saw him myself, right there in Arras! And it wasn’t Luxe Absolu, where you’d think a man of his standing would go make a purchase, or rent a bot. No. It was…”

He looked around, starting when he finally took notice of Javert, then hurriedly continued regardless, his voice lowered a little, “Simon’s Secondhand Companions. Now I wouldn’t go there myself—nothing wrong with trying to make a bargain, but those bots are at least four generations out of date, and that Simon wouldn’t know a properly programmed pleasure bot if you put one up his arse. Pardon, mesdames.”

Two of the gossips tittered, but Javert had flinched, hit by a sudden image that appeared with sudden, brutal clarity in his mind, even though he hadn’t thought of it in years.

The bagne of Toulon. A high security prison. A sterile, white room, three techs and two doctors with tablets in their hand, frowning at the data as before them, a prisoner twisted helplessly, the first to test a new procedure to make the brutes more docile.

Javert had been there. He remembered it well. He remembered the prisoner too; when the Commissaire had asked for his opinion, he’d put three names forward that seemed suitable test subjects to him.

The one they chose went by the number 24601. Sullen and impossibly strong, he was a beast of a man. Even then, stripped naked and spread out for the prototype, he’d exuded hate and dangerous strength.

Until they’d switched the machine on.

It hadn’t made much of a sound. It was an elegant thing of steel and chrome, and an appendage made of silicone. The prisoner’s legs had been tied far apart. Before Javert had come in, someone had shaved him; his genitals hung unprotected between his legs, naked apart from the small sensors the doctors had placed on him.

Now that the machine came to life, it forced those legs even further apart. Then the dildo came forward. It glistened, slick with lube. Someone had shaved the prisoner’s hole as well; on the monitors on the wall, Javert had a close-up view as it pressed against the hole and then slid inside, penetrating the prisoner deeply despite his desperate groan and the way his thighs trembled.

Javert wondered idly whether he’d been fucked before. They kept the prisoners apart as much as possible in order to not encourage their animal aggressions, but it wasn’t always possible to keep the beasts properly contained.

Either way, the prisoner couldn’t struggle. A moment later, the machine had surged fully to life, holding the man bound and spread as it fucked him with the silicone dildo, adjusting its angle several times while the doctors bent over their tablets.

Then the prisoner cried out, and with a soft hiss that seemed nearly triumphant, the machine increased speed and force of its thrusts, having found the perfect angle.

On the screens, Javert could now see that the man’s cock was hard, bouncing every time the machine mercilessly thrust into him. It only took a minute until it made the convict climax. As Javert turned his attention back from the screens to the man in the grip of the machine, the convict trembled and arched, as much as it was possible for him.

Another appendage of the machine had come forward just in time, collecting the convict’s ejaculate—the screens would show quantity and whatever other data the scientists were interested in, but Javert couldn’t take his eyes from the convict.

His name was Jean Valjean, and he was a dangerous man. But right now, as the machine continued to fuck him through his orgasm with inhuman, precise thrusts, all the sullenness of the prisoner had been stripped away.

Slowly, Javert walked around until he could see the convict’s face. His mouth was slack, his eyes closed, and if there had been rebellion on his face when he was first penetrated by the machine, now his face was wet with tears.

“Another,” one of the scientists said, the machine still hissing gently as it filled the prisoner with thrust after thrust angled straight at the man’s prostate.

It took longer this time—all data the scientists would find useful, Javert supposed. But when he looked up at the screens again, he found himself far more entranced by the sight of the man’s hole stretched open and gleaming with lube, clenching around the silicone every time the dildo filled him. His cock was still hard, his balls drawn up tight. His body was wet with sweat, and he writhed in the embrace of the machine as though he wanted to escape it.

Of course, escape was impossible. Several minutes later, the prisoner convulsed again, a groan escaping from his lips as his back arched, his body finally yielding to the battering of his prostate. On the screens, his balls throbbed and contracted, the sensors faithfully sending their data, analyzing the decrease in quantity of the convict’s come even as the man moaned in despair, all the muscles of his thighs trembling as he clenched hard around the dildo.

From his vantage point, Javert had a good view of the tears that ran down his face, and for a moment he wondered whether that, too, would be analyzed. Then he came to his senses—data of that sort was hardly needed for this experiment, and his own fascination showed only too clearly why he was a guard, and not a doctor. Still, surely this was the sort of data that was useful for a man like him. To protect society from criminals, any sort of knowledge was valuable. Jean Valjean hadn’t wept since they’d first chained him—but apparently getting fucked did the trick. Now it just remained to be seen how it would affect his behavior.

*

Javert could not always make it to the examination room, but he’d seen Jean Valjean tremble in the arms of the machine often enough over the years. At first, the convict had received a weekly treatment, and the science department had been pleased by the initial results—in the days following his time in the machine, the sullen aggression the man exuded was tampered, and he turned quiet and withdrawn. But invariably, it would wear off before the next session. The scientists experimented with length and rhythm of the treatment—daily emptying of his balls, it was found, affected his labor, and so at last a rhythm of twice a week was settled on.

That was, of course, until Jean Valjean tried to escape.

Javert was there when the experiment reached the next stage after this attempt. Instead of the silicone dildo, the machine that held the convict tightly in its grip slid a smooth, gleaming rod of steel into the man’s hole. With a soft, buzzing sound, the machine recalibrated several times until, as the screens showed, the rod pressed right against the convict’s prostate.

Jean Valjean was trembling, his skin wet with sweat, but even so, his cock was half hard between his legs.

Then one of the scientists started the machine, and electricity ran through the steel rod, stimulating the convict’s prostate.

The effect was immediate. With a pained, desperate cry, Jean Valjean arched up, all the muscles of his body tensing up as his balls throbbed and come shot from his cock, once more gathered and analyzed by the machine. The sight was stunning—and the procedure effective, Javert noted, for it was over within seconds, and had the prisoner sob instead of moan.

When it was over, Jean Valjean was gasping for breath, his face wet with tears. The rod was still in his ass, the machine holding it in position as the scientists quietly convened over their tablets.

Then someone nodded and said “Again.” A heartbeat later, Jean Valjean cried out once more in agony, his body tensing as electricity shot into his prostate, and another quantity of ejaculate was forced from his balls.

It was impressive, Javert thought, unable to take his eyes off the man’s face. Valjean was panting when it was done, his breath coming in little sobs, his limbs trembling. The machine was certainly effective.

“Once more,” one of the scientists said, “let’s see if anything’s left.”

This time, Valjean’s eyes opened as the current surged through the rod right into his prostate, his eyes glassy and unseeing as his body convulsed in the steely grip of the machine. His cock was purple with blood, but even as it throbbed, only a few drops of clear liquid leaked from it, his balls clearly wrung empty by the earlier stimulation.

Surely all of that was useful data—but Javert could barely glance at the screens, captivated by the look in the prisoner’s eyes as that final, agonizing climax was forced from him. For one long moment, they stared at each other, Valjean’s face a mask of agony and helpless despair—and then, when the electricity ceased to flow and the machine drew out the rod from his hole with a little whirr, Valjean slumped, slack in his bonds with all fight gone from him. It seemed almost impossible that this was the same prisoner who’d stared at Javert from sullen eyes, the same man who’d dared to attempt escape.

Surely all of this would be useful in the years to come, the various treatments by the machine making the prisoners more docile in the future, and making his own job easier—but even now, Javert couldn’t concentrate on the chatter of the scientists in the background, staring instead at the body of convict 24601, who’d finally been driven to utter surrender.

*

Impossible as it seemed, it wasn’t the final escape attempt. There were talks of discontinuing Valjean’s use as a test subject—but by that time, weekly sessions with the machine had been successfully used on several further convicts, whose continued docility made the experiments worthwhile. Jean Valjean, it was decided, would be a useful subject of further study, although this time in the field of experimental punishments in combination with the sexual treatments he already received.

Javert was present for many of those as well. By that time, he had risen in the ranks enough to be able to set his own schedule; the experiment’s need for a senior guard coincided well with his own interest in seeing the difficulties with the sullen convict 24601 brought to an end.

Experiments with behavior-modifying chips had not turned out well; men set free with such a chip to ascertain their behavior in the future would often tamper with it, and in several cases, the chips had been known to fail or cause unintended side effects.

The approach the scientists at Toulon chose was more primitive. Still, Javert thought as he looked down at the bound body of Jean Valjean, for these primitive men, perhaps this was the approach that was needed.

They had set a chip into Valjean’s spine, the small scar still visible at his nape. Its purpose was a simple, physical effect to aid in his retraining. The chip made it impossible for the convict to climax, no matter how he was stimulated.

And it was certainly effective.

Javert had watched Jean Valjean get fucked by the machine’s slick silicone dildo for nearly half an hour now, every thrust hitting the man’s prostate with cruel precision so that he writhed and moaned, his face wet with tears. Every now and then, strings of thick, white come would drip from his cock, driven out of him by the relentless stimulation of his prostate. But he didn’t come. No matter how he arched, no matter how his cock throbbed between his spread thighs, he couldn’t come.

That was, he couldn’t come until someone said the word that was keyed into the chip—or used a tablet to give the command, Javert supposed, though those were out of bounds for a guard like him. 

Javert had been given the code word as well, with the strict instruction to note down every use of it, although so far he hadn’t seen an occasion to use it. Surely an orgasm was a reward. And there wasn’t a lot to reward this convict for, given his history.

But now Jean Valjean hung limp in the metal restraints of the machine. Every now and then, a shudder ran through him when the dildo pressed against his overstimulated prostate again, but it seemed the machine had wrung all from him he was physically able to give.

Javert could have looked at the screens to make sure—by now they had the exact quantity he could give down to milliliters—but Javert, who was no scientist, had other data at his disposal. And the way Valjean hung in utter defeat in the arms of the machine, trembling weakly at every smooth thrust, his face wet with tears and his body slick with sweat, told him all he needed to know. Jean Valjean was done, at least for today. He’d be pleasantly docile, at least for a few more days. And then he’d be back here, getting his defiance milked out of him.

Two adjutant guards dragged the unresisting Jean Valjean back into the lift that would transport them back to the cell level. Javert walked quietly behind them, overseeing the proceedings, already mentally calculating the shifts for the next day.

“He really can’t come, monsieur?” one of the guards asked. “What’d they do, castrate him?”

“He’s chipped,” the other answered before Javert could. “Have you seen the docs use his word before? He can only come when you say it.”

“Yeah? What’s the word then?”

“Toulon,” the other said, staring at their prisoner with obvious expectation, only to frown when nothing happened.

“You need a certain level of security clearing,” Javert said. He stared at Valjean, who did not meet his eyes.

The convict’s head was lowered. A shudder had run through his body at the word, although there had been no climax. Still, it seemed that by now, even the sound of the word, when spoken without the command sent from his chip, caused an immediate effect. It was interesting—though Javert didn’t doubt that the scientists had all of that finely catalogued as well.

“D’you have it, monsieur?” the younger of the guards asked with obvious curiosity, and Javert thought, what the hell. There was a chip in his own spine, keyed to give him access to cells and lifts—and now keyed to the prisoner’s chip as well. He’d been given clearance to use the code word as he saw fit, and like this, as a demonstration for the benefit of the guards instead of a reward, it would contribute to the convict’s retraining.

“I do,” Javert said calmly, his eyes on Valjean. “Toulon.”

The convict moaned desperately, his head arching back, new tears leaking from his eyes as the strong body convulsed. The two guards held him in place, pressed against the wall of the lift as they descended, and the younger curiously grabbed Valjean’s groin.

“He isn’t even hard,” he said in surprise.

“Would you be, after all that?” the other guard replied.

Javert kept his eyes on Valjean’s face, watching calmly until Valjean had recovered. When Valjean was at last able to stand unassisted again, their eyes met for a moment. Valjean’s were wide and desperate, just like a panicked animal, but there was no defiance in him, and he offered no resistance at all when the two guards finally led him out of the lift and back to the cells.

Punishment, Javert thought, punishment was the key to his docility. Surely that was the result the scientists would come to in the end. It was the same result Javert had come to, after years of work in the bagne. They’d give it a fancier name—but in the end, it was what it was, and it was the only thing keeping a brute like Valjean in check.

*

It was after Valjean’d tried to escape for the fourth time that the doctors gave up on their project and tried a radically different approach. There were, after all, enough subjects in the bagne to continue the tests—and most of the prisoners reacted well to the prolonged use of the machine to keep them docile. Only test subject 24601 was different—and thus, predestined for another experiment.

Castration. It hadn’t been tried on the prisoners before, and Javert was curious, as well as doubtful. If the solution were so easy, they could castrate the entire lot, after all, and make his life easier. Still, Javert was there when it was done, overseeing the procedure in his function as a senior guard, with three of the adjutant guards on hand in case the prisoner broke free.

An event that was highly unlikely, of course. Jean Valjean was strapped in place in one of the sterile, white rooms in the sick bay. His legs were spread by a steel bar, his genitals exposed in the cold, fluorescent light. Javert wasn’t quite sure what he’d expected—an assistant with a tray of tools, perhaps, some procedure that would last at least half an hour—but it was done in less than five minutes.

One of the guards looked a little queasy, and Javert took a mental note to add to his file. Meanwhile, the doctor had grabbed the convict’s balls in one hand, pulling them away from his body while the prisoner shivered helplessly, and then made a small, precise cut with his laser scalpel.

There was the brief stench of burnt skin as Jean Valjean cried out in agony. Then it was over, the convict’s testicles dropped onto a tray, a red scar between Jean Valjean’s legs the only thing that remained, the wound immediately sealed by the laser even as it had cut through his skin.

The doctor sprayed an antiseptic on it. A moment later, Jean Valjean was released, staggering helplessly as the guards grabbed hold of him. Between his legs, his cock looked strangely small as it hung there, soft and useless now.

It was not a great loss, Javert supposed, even if the castration shouldn’t yield the expected result.

*

Jean Valjean didn’t run again. It seemed the castration, at last, had been able to do what the machine and the chip hadn’t managed. Jean Valjean remained docile and quiet, doing his work without protest, all defiance gone from him at last—cut off along with his balls, Javert supposed.

He’d been released from Toulon eventually… and then he’d vanished, breaking his parole. Which just went to show that castration alone wasn’t enough. Valjean should never have been released. As a prisoner, castration had kept him manageable—but it wasn’t enough for rehabilitation. Though surely in the long run, Jean Valjean would find himself back where he belonged. And next time, it would be for life.

*

Now, as the memories kept flooding back in, Javert couldn’t help but keep thinking of the mayor’s suspicious behavior. There was a similarity—and of course, there was the man’s incredible strength. And it was true that Madeleine did not make use of any of the services open to a man of his wealth. The mayor should have two or three robots at least, the newest, sleekest machines to amuse himself with… but his home was a drab place without even a single bot in his bedroom, or so the town’s gossips had found out.

All of a sudden, it began to make sense. Without his balls, the mayor wouldn’t get much use out of a bot. Most importantly, there was still the chip.

But why then go to Arras?

On the other hand, why frequent a shady, second hand dealer of outdated pleasure bots who would ask no questions of his clients?

Frustrated, Javert could not find an answer to this problem. All his enquiries into Madeleine’s past had never led to answers. As inspector, his security clearing wasn’t high enough to probe too deeply, and he could not give reasons for someone with the needed clearance to sift through Madeleine’s past.

But this… this was a trail Javert himself could follow until he found his answer.

The coming Sunday, Javert himself took the bullet train to Arras, making certain to board a carriage only after Madeleine himself had boarded, and to keep out of his sight as they disembarked. He followed Madeleine all the way to Simon’s Secondhand Companions, and, once the mayor had vanished inside, Javert waited for several minutes before he followed.

His security clearance did give him the authority to intimidate M. Simon—technically Javert had no power in Arras, but he had filed it as an emergency. It would lead to questions later, but dealing with the paperwork was something he’d gladly do in exchange for finally getting some answers.

Madeleine was in one of the small, private rooms on the second floor. Javert entered unannounced. The door slid open smoothly and silently, responding to the authority of his chip—but the inhabitant of the room was too distracted to have taken notice either way.

Very slowly, Javert stepped inside. Before him, M. Madeleine rested half-bent over a couch, one hand grasping at the wall, the other at a cushion. Behind him stood one of Simon’s sex robots. It was an old model, ridiculously old-fashioned, made in those years when tech had aspired to make bots that mimicked humans.

The bot was naked, as was Madeleine. It clutched the mayor’s hips and was currently engaged in fucking him with deep, slow thrusts, every motion drawing a moan from the mayor’s lips as his fingers desperate clutched at the couch. Madeleine’s eyes were closed. His skin was gleaming with sweat. He was trembling, his thighs wide apart, giving Javert a good look at his hole clenching around the bot’s cock again and again.

But most damning of all was what Javert couldn’t see.

Madeleine’s soft, small cock dangled between his thighs at every thrust—but there were no balls. Javert wasn’t close enough to make out whether there was a scar, or whether there was a matching scar at his nape—but surely it was proof enough. The mayor had been castrated.

For what reason had he come here? Javert couldn’t say. With the chip, he couldn’t come either way, no matter how long the sex bot worked at fucking him. Perhaps it felt good regardless—or perhaps it was the closest the mayor could come to feeling pleasure. Either way, a terrible triumph began to well up in Javert. His prey was caught, his doubt ended, his questions finally answered.

No more mayor Madeleine. There was only the convict Jean Valjean—and he would be returned to Toulon now, where he belonged.

Javert stepped even closer. This time, some of the sound his boots made on the floor must have filtered through to Valjean, for his eyes blinked open, his mouth that had been slack with agonized pleasure a moment ago now twisting into an expression of terror.

It was truly all the proof he needed, Javert thought, staring down into Jean Valjean’s eyes, now filled once more with that old, animal despair.

Then he smiled, holding Valjean’s gaze as he spoke a single word.

“Toulon.”

Even as Valjean’s eyes widened, his body shuddered, his muscles seizing up as climax ripped through him—the first climax he must have experienced since his release eight long years ago.

His cock was still soft, but even so his back arched helplessly. He pressed himself back onto the robot’s erection almost desperately, fucking himself on the sex bot beneath Javert’s triumphant gaze, his eyes wide with terror and a pleasure that kindled an echo somewhere deep down within Javert.

For long, endless seconds, Valjean shuddered in his orgasm. When it was done, he was limp, unresisting when Javert put handcuffs on him, the sex bot still fucking away until Javert shut it off with a barked command.

It was, Javert supposed, not a failed experiment at all in the end—even though those scientists from years ago had surely long since moved on. Still, Valjean would go back to where he belonged, and Javert would no longer be plagued by doubt. In the end, the code word had been chosen well indeed.


End file.
